It’s not fair. It is so not fair that he can look so good and piss me off so much at the same time.
I’m so lost in my own irritation, staring at my feet and cursing Fisher as I walk, that I don’t pay attention to what’s in front of me until I slam into someone and stumble backwards. Hands come out to grab my arms and steady me and, when I look up to apologize, I let out an audible sigh.
“Ms. Butler, how nice to see you.”
Jefferson Fisher, Jr., my ex-father-in-law and the bane of my existence for fourteen years, towers over me, smoothing down the front of his navy blue three-piece suit like a brush with me just made him dirty. He looks the same as he always does, and it surprises me that this man never seems to age. As tall as Fisher and just as good looking, but with salt and pepper hair and more creases around his forehead and eyes, Jefferson Fisher, Jr. looks like George Clooney. You know, if George Clooney never smiled and always spoke to you in a condescending manner and gave backhanded compliments out like they were cookies.
“How are you doing, Ms. Butler?”
The way he annunciates my maiden name with a touch of a smirk makes me want to punch him in the mouth, right here on Main Street. The day my divorce from his son was final and I went back to my maiden name was probably the happiest day of his life. God forbid someone like me continue walking around, tainting the Fisher name.
“I’m fine, Mr. Fisher, how about yourself?” I ask politely. Politely only because I’m not about to make a scene in the middle of town and further validate his theory that I’m poor white trash who only latched onto his son for the last name and money.
“Very well, very well,” he replies distractedly, still trying to brush off the imaginary dirt on his suit coat. “I’m actually glad we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Butler House.”
Pulling the strap of my purser higher on my shoulder, I paste on a fake smile and nod for him to continue. He’s always made it more than clear at town meetings that he thinks the inn is outdated and an eyesore on the island. He’s been wanting to either tear it down completely or sell it off to someone else who can update it and turn it into something more worthy of his vision of Fisher Island. I’ve told him several times that he can shove his opinion up his arrogant ass, nicely of course. It’s not very easy when Fisher’s Bank and Trust holds the mortgage for Butler House Inn. If I have another round of problems at the inn like the ones I had this winter, problems that emptied out my savings account and then some, causing me to fall behind on the mortgage, they are going to swoop in like a pack of vultures and take it right out of my hands.
“As you know, we’ve had several interested buyers for that property over the years and you’ve never expressed any interest in working with them before. I know you’ve met Stanford Wallis and I’ve heard that you two have been spending time together lately.”
The disapproval is loud and clear in his voice. He almost sounds more irritated that I’m with Stanford than he was when I was with his son, and that just pisses me off for Fisher. His father never appreciated him, never saw the passion behind the choices he made for his life and did nothing but badger him about not following in his footsteps.
“Stanford is a very intelligent young man with a good head for business. I’m quite proud of the work he’s been doing for me lately, and he’s shared with me that he’s been doing some consulting with you on the side. The ideas he has for Butler House and its future on this island are nothing short of amazing. We need to step it up into the next century, give it an update, make it more appealing to the young people who frequent the island looking for the newest trends, the hottest nightspots and the most stylish décor,” he explains.
What he’s saying isn’t news to me. Stanford has been completely open and honest since day one about his desire to buy Butler House from me and turn the place into an elaborate resort, complete with waterpark, nightclub and day spa. He knows how much I adore my family’s inn and how I can’t imagine changing anything about it, so he doesn’t push it. That doesn’t stop him from throwing out ideas now and then and attempting to change my mind, but at least he’s not rude or pushy about it like Mr. Fisher.
“As you are aware, Fisher Bank and Trust holds the mortgage to Butler House and I’ve been reviewing the data Stanford has been compiling regarding your financial situation and putting into a spreadsheet for you. Let’s be honest here, Ms. Butler. The inn is not doing as well as it should. As well as it could. You’re sinking, and you’re sinking fast. You may well have lost the inn to foreclosure had spring weather not come early this year and brought vacationers to the island before summer season. You’re a young woman, and you could potentially make hundreds of thousands of dollars on the sale of this property. It’s in a prime location right by the ferry and it’s the first thing people see when they step off the boat and onto the dock. You could retire at the age of thirty and live a life of relative leisure. The business is struggling and you’re in over your head. I think it’s high time you reconsider the ideas that Stanford has, especially if the two of you are seriously going to make a go at this relationship.”
I hate the sound of disgust in his voice when he mentions my relationship with Stanford. It’s none of his business who I choose to date and, regardless of the fact that his bank owns my loan, it’s none of his business what I do with the inn as long as I’m not late again with my mortgage payments. It’s been touch and go for a while now, but I’m making it work. I will do whatever it takes to make it work and he needs to back the hell off.